Smiles and Sunshine Kisses
by Sirry-Addict
Summary: [part three, mild slash, SBHP] He was kissing tears away before it had a chance to register open mouthed whispers that sought the emotional pain and drew it out like a salve.
1. Smile

His smile was soft, that first time. It had been one of those secret smiles, reserved for those few who chose to look closely; a soft quirk to the mouth that would have been missed had it not been for the sunlight that streamed into the hospital wing's many windows high above them.

They had been talking softly that morning, Harry's eyes closed against the pain of sunlight, voice hoarse from screaming just nights before. Sirius was there, beside his bed, wrapped in almost as many bandages as Harry, voice just a whisper from issuing orders for days on end. Sirius' burned hands were cradled in Harry's lap, soft digits stroking around the bandages as he talked around the nightmares.

There was no talk of fear, no talk of who had been lost, and no answer to the soft comment from Remus that they were truly blind if they didn't see what was in front of them. Because they felt it; whatever 'it' was, it was curling them into a lazy blanket of comfort, and they weren't going to question it.

They weren't so foolish as to tempt Fate.

Sirius' head was cradled on Harry's stomach, body half in and half out of the chair next to the man's bed. He was careful to avoid the flesh wounds, arms curled above Harry's heart as the young man traced his way around Sirius' wrists. They'd been like this for hours; a mock prayer position that offered Sirius the opportunity to thank whoever needed thanking for keeping Harry safe.

He didn't voice his concern that he was hurting Harry. Didn't need to; he'd moved away to take a glass of water from Hermione hours before, and felt, rather than heard, the painful inhalation as his body weight was removed. And he hated himself for enjoying that; enjoying that his weight kept Harry out of pain and free from harm. Harry's gentle hands had guided him around the pain, curled Sirius into him with a soft whisper of, "Don't leave."

A heartbeat lulled him into a sated state, and Harry's voice had spoken of the things he wanted to do now, places he wanted to go; he'd asked Sirius if they could buy that house in the country and never ever leave. They'd talked about a home for what felt like an eternity and an instant, and before they both knew it, their tones were drowsy, already hoarse voices like sandpaper on gravel.

Remus had limped by then, stride jerky and swaying, but determined. He'd smiled, a quiet smile that offered reassurances that didn't need to be given, and promised that they could rest for a while. Sirius barely caught it, eyes lidded and hair obscuring his view, but Harry did. Eyes shut against the winter sun, he smiled back.

It was a secret smile, a quirk of the lips that no one would have seen if it hadn't been for the sunlight that carded through Sirius' hair like molten ribbons of blue. It spoke of the care and trust placed in the man swaying on his feet before them, unseen, but felt in presence.

But it hadn't been the first smile. Sirius' lips curled in a shadow of a grin, and he pressed a kiss to the flesh beneath the fabric his cheek was pillowed against. No, that first smile had been saved for him, as sure hands guided him back to a spot over a young man's heart; it had been kissed by sunshine, and promised a future that would be had together.

And he enjoyed that.

_I do not own Harry Potter, any of the characters involved, and am not making any profit from this piece of fanfiction._


	2. Touch

The first touches weren't hesitant; they were controlled, soft, gentle movements of curling fingers tracing fading scars. They were movements that both sets of hands knew well; patterns from the care of treating War wounds that were ingrained in the very fibers of their skin.

The pair would be sitting on their couch, in their home, alone after an afternoon with Remus and Hermione, when fingers would slide across a wrist, tracing the edge of a burn that was in the final stage of healing. Depending on the person who was touching, the path would change; if it was Sirius, his fingers would trail up silky flesh to rest in the soft curve of a scarred stab wound on Harry's forearm. If it was Harry, the fingers would dip and swirl, tracing the calloused-over lines of physical defense wounds on Sirius' palms.

They'd slide into an embrace that had long overstepped the boundaries of platonic, but had never crossed the line of physical romance. Harry would curl into Sirius' lap, knees folding beneath him as he bowed his head beneath Sirius' chin in what looked like a mockery of childlike innocence. Sirius would pause for a moment, nose resting against Harry's temple, and inhale deeply; coarse fingertips would slide compliant arms onto Sirius' shoulders', and he'd curl inwards, drawing Harry to him with a soft sigh.

Harry would fall asleep then, resting comfortably and without nightmares; his soft weight would often lull Sirius into a hazy state that was familiar. He'd draw Harry closer to him then, fingers rubbing slow circles into the line of the young man's spine, tips of his nails grazing along the line of skin between trousers and T-shirt. Harry would arc forward, Sirius would inhale deeply, and he'd smooth the wrinkled fabric beneath his hands.

Waking to a jerking motion, as his world slid backward momentarily, Harry would groan as Sirius slipped his elbows beneath his numbing knees, and he'd press closer. This was when the line between platonic and romantic would blur, but neither of them really paid attention; a soft kiss would be pressed to a drowsy mouth, whispered goodnights curling from a throat that so desperately wanted to say, "I love you."

The first touches weren't hesitant, the embrace that followed was always safe, but the last words of the evening coiled inside like a sickening combination of hope and fear; minds working on basic instinct as thought was brushed away, they were unsure.

But the lines between platonic and romantic were blurred, and it was decided that it didn't really matter.

_I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters involved, and I am not making any profit from this work of fanfiction._


	3. Nightmare

Sirius had been scared the first time it had happened, truly and honestly _scared_. He'd been in a dreamless sleep, relaxed and sated after an evening spent talking, and drinking, with Remus; later, when he sat back to observe what had happened, he cursed himself for not having seen it sooner.

Nightmares. Nightmares that curled behind the emerald surface of Harry's eyes; dreams that itched deep inside his chest.

The screaming woke him first; the horrid, bone-chilling screams that Sirius hadn't heard in months; the sound curled into him with a paralyzing agent, icy bands contracting around his wrists and ankles as his heart stopped and jump started in a staccato rhythm. It took a few moments for him to swallow, to shake his head against the fear and move past being an observer to his reality. The screams drove into him like a thousand splinters that lit every one of his nerves on fire.

It took him even longer to tiptoe around his bedroom, gathering his clothes before making his way to Harry's room, where the nightmare was intensifying, if the sounds behind the door were any indication. The muttered litany of, "No, no, no, no, _no!_" curled around his wrist and twisted the knob; Harry's fear was pooling beneath Sirius' skin in a cold sweat that slid against his skin in clammy comfort.

Harry's pain was evident in the closed fist grip upon the sheets, bare chest heaving for air as he unconsciously bit back another round of screaming; Sirius' body slid into a protective mode it hadn't seen for a while, and seemed to work without his permission. It recognized this phantom horror and sought to remove it on its own accord; he knelt on the bed, half across Harry, and lifted the thrashing head with gentle, calloused fingers.

He was kissing tears away before it had a chance to register; open mouthed whispers that sought the emotional pain and drew it out like a salve. He was crying as Harry stilled, hands fighting his gentle hold for just a moment before surrendering and curling into Sirius' hair with a sob. The grip was harsh, fingers clenching in half-awake dreams, but Sirius pressed forward, slipping kisses into matted hair, onto tear stained eyes.

When Harry woke completely, it was to curl his body into Sirius' frame, to pull him down, weight keeping him from the pain as it had so many months before. Harry's head was cradled in the space between Sirius' arms, and a dry mouth pressed kisses to a wet jaw, and they both were crying as Sirius slid down Harry's body to press his face into the hollow below his ribs, hands pressing against Harry's collar; neither was sure who needed the comfort, but both were willing to give.

They laid in the position that represented a time that they had been at last safe, and it scared Sirius because he shouldn't have remembered every last detail from those hours. But Harry was crying again, hands tracing the scars, inside and out, with shaking hands that spoke of love, and Sirius pressed a kiss to a bare stomach that whispered the, "I'm sorry, so sorry..._so, so, so sorry_," that threatened to escape.

_I do not own Harry Potter, any of the characters involved, and I am not making any profit from this work of fanfiction._


End file.
